Antiagon Fire

21

By ninth glass on Lundi morning, the Telaryn force had passed through a score of hamlets and villages, the last being Ghaern, a largish village where they had spent the night on Solayi. They had reached a point some fifteen milles north of Ephra, and while the troopers watered mounts and took a break, Quaeryt, Vaelora, and Skarpa stood under an oak tree that was shedding leaves with each gust of a damp wind that felt only a trace less than raw.

“So far as I can tell, there’s no way to cross the river except by ferry,” said Skarpa. “The maps don’t show any bridges. None of the locals know of any, and the only ferry is supposed to be at Geusyn. That’s maybe five milles north of Ephra.” He gestured to the far side of the river. “Over there all I can see is marsh and swamp and trees … and sometimes our supply flatboats.”

“We should think about building a bridge somewhere,” suggested Quaeryt. “If you need to deal with the Antiagons, you don’t want to rely on ferries.”

“Needs to be closer to Ephra,” said Skarpa. “We’d have to slog through swamp on the west side.”

“We’ll have to see if there’s any place with solid ground on both sides and where the river’s not too wide,” added Quaeryt. If there even is such a place. He was already worrying about saying that he and the imagers could build a bridge to Ephra. What if the river gets even wider and the ground stays swampy?

“I’d not want to wager on that,” replied Skarpa.

“Nor I, either. It might not be practical, but I can hope.” Quaeryt refrained from shaking his head. “Have either Meurn or Kharllon said anything about the bridge Threkhyl imaged?”

“Not a word. Not where I’ve heard anything.”

That wasn’t surprising.

In another quint Southern Army was again riding along the rutted road south, with first company in the van, followed by Eleventh Regiment. Skarpa and Quaeryt rode side by side, with Vaelora and Zhelan behind them. Quaeryt couldn’t help but glance continually at the river, and at the far side, but the western shore seemed an unchanging welter of low trees, reeds, and high grasses, stretching west as far as he could see. Does it go on all the way to Ephra?

After another glass or so, his intermittent study was interrupted by the sound of scouts galloping back toward the vanguard.

“Sirs! Raiders ahead! Attacking a wagon.”

“How many?” demanded Skarpa.

“A squad. Couldn’t be more than that.”

Quaeryt turned in the saddle. “Major … take first company. Lhandor and Threkhyl, you go with them!”

“Yes, sir!”

“First company! Forward!” ordered Zhelan.

Quaeryt forced himself just to watch as first company headed out at a measured pace.

“Very good,” murmured Vaelora as she eased her mount forward until she was riding almost at Quaeryt’s shoulder.

“I agree, Lady,” added Skarpa, with a laugh.

“Thank you both,” replied Quaeryt dryly.

“Can’t say I’m surprised that there are raiders here,” Skarpa finally said, easing his mount almost to the left shoulder of the road to allow Vaelora to ride up between him and Quaeryt. “No large towns, no sign of High Holders.”

“But what are they raiding?” asked Quaeryt. “The most valuable goods are on the river … or in Ephra or Kephria.”

Skarpa frowned. “If they’re raiding, they aren’t doing it for nothing.”

The column continued southward, and a mille later, as the road curved back eastward around a low hill, two scouts rode toward them, reining up and then riding beside Quaeryt along the shoulder on the east side of the road.

“The raiders were gone when first company got there. They attacked a wagon.”

“Who were the riders?” asked Skarpa. “Could you tell?”

“No, sir,” replied the scout. “They wore dark green, all of them, like uniforms.”

“Someone’s private army,” ventured Quaeryt. But that raises even more questions.

Ahead, Quaeryt saw a wagon, and first company, formed up on the road to the south of the wagon, with a squad of rankers and Zhelan surrounding the wagon.

The first thing that Quaeryt noticed as they rode closer was the blackened area around the rear of the wagon, as if someone had started a fire that had failed to ignite the broken tailboard. The wagon itself was small, half the size of a dray with large high wheels supporting a body barely three yards long and perhaps half as wide. The wagon bed was a yard deep and a canvas sheet had been tied across barrels and kegs set on their butt ends, but the containers had been smashed open and their contents strewn across the road and the west shoulder.

Quaeryt had no trouble smelling the overpowering odor of what had been in the wagon. “Elveweed,” he said to Vaelora.

“All those barrels?”

“It looks that way.”

The single draft horse lay on its side, unmoving in its traces. Seeing the dark stain on the dirt, Quaeryt reined up beside Zhelan and looked closely. One side of its skull was crushed in.

“What sort of weapon…?” He shook his head.

“Something like a morning star,” answered Zhelan.

“But … does anyone use those anymore?”

“Someone did here.”

“They had to be carrying it on purpose-just for that.” Quaeryt couldn’t think of any other reason for carrying such a heavy weapon, one unnecessary in warfare when almost no one wore armor any longer. Then he noticed the body of the man in gray, sprawled on the road in front of the dead horse. His skull was also crushed.

A woman knelt by him, her body shaking.

Vaelora dismounted, handing the reins of her mount to one of the scouts, and strode over to the woman. Quaeryt followed, still mounted.

“We weren’t doing nothing,” sobbed the woman, looking up to Vaelora. “Traes, he was just trying to put food on the table.”

“With elveweed?” murmured Quaeryt.

“Why did you need the elveweed to do that?” asked Vaelora.

“Only thing folks’ll pay for hereabouts. Traders sneak north from Antiago. Elveweed don’t grow there.”

Quaeryt frowned. “You couldn’t sell it in Ephra?”

“How’d we get there? Can’t afford the ferry. ’Sides, factors … holders don’t let no one doesn’t hold a medallion sell nothing there. Who’s got silvers for that?”

“What about selling it yourself farther south?” asked Quaeryt.

“You crazy? Antiagons fry anyone selling elveweed … except some of their own. That’s why we sell to their traders.”

“Who attacked you?”

“Friggin’ holder. Had to be Chaelaet. Dark green.” The woman’s eyes took in Quaeryt’s uniform and then that of Zhelan. “Who are you?”

“Commander Quaeryt of Telaryn. We’re headed to Ephra.”

The woman turned to Vaelora. “You help me, Lady … please … You are a lady?”

“I am.”

“Don’t let them…”

“They won’t touch you. They’re not like the Bovarians or the holders here.” Vaelora paused. “They know they’d answer to my brother … and to my husband.”

“… husband?”

“The commander is my husband. You can ride with us so long as you wish.”

Interestingly enough, the woman did not ask who Vaelora’s brother was.

Or perhaps she thought that Vaelora’s husband was also her brother. Quaeryt had heard that such marriages occasionally occurred among the oligarchs in Jariola, but why would a Bovarian woman think that might happen in Lydar … unless she knew so little of geography that all places outside of Bovaria were the same?

By the time the troopers had cleared the road and brought up a spare mule to hitch to the wagon, which was unharmed, Vaelora had calmed down the woman and had her riding beside her while a trooper drove the wagon, along with the supply wagons. Vaelora said little, and whenever Quaeryt glanced in her direction, she shook her head, indicating that the woman was not ready to say more than she had.

Quaeryt motioned to Skarpa, and the two rode farther ahead, putting more distance between their mounts and those of the women.

“Have the scouts found out more about those riders?” asked Quaeryt.

“I was about to ask you.”

“Zhelan said they were long gone by the time first company reached the wagon, but the woman said the riders had to belong to a holder named Chaelaet because they wore dark green.”

“That’s a start. Don’t care much for elveweed, but I care even less for holders sending armsmen out to smash heads.”

“From what Bhayar intimated, some of the High Holders here may be trading in elveweed themselves. It could be that they don’t want anyone else doing it.”

“That would make sense.” Skarpa snorted.

“That means you’re going to have trouble with them as well as with Aliaro.”

“And if I come down on the High Holders, they might just decide to make this part of Bovaria part of Antiago, you think?”

“They might threaten that. If they do, you’ll have two strong imagers. Don’t argue. Just have Threkhyl topple their holds in on them.”

“You’re sounding like Meinyt again.”

“There are times when young commanders can learn from grizzled old subcommanders,” retorted Quaeryt. “But then, the more I see of Bovarian High Holders, the less I’m impressed.”

“You’ve never been impressed by most High Holders.”

“I’m even less impressed by those here in the south.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

Both men shook their heads as they continued to ride southward.